


Five Times Sam and Dean Didn't Notice (and one time they did)

by Whit Merule (whit_merule)



Series: Happy, few [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Oblivious Dean Winchester, Oblivious Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-15 19:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7235230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whit_merule/pseuds/Whit%20Merule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BECAUSE THAT IS THE BEST TROPE STRUCTURE OKAY</p><p>right so the premise is</p><p>guys</p><p>Mary, when she died, was one year younger than Charlie when she died.<br/>They are both now alive and in the bunker.<br/>We know nothing about Mary's preferences beyond 'the cupids made her fall in love with John'.<br/>So.... how much can we break Sam and Dean's brains by having their 'little sister' hook up with their angelic idealised mother?</p><p>LET'S SEE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> “So!” said Charlie, and turned the pan down to simmer. “Thai food’s probably going to taste weird to you but it’s pretty much the only thing I can cook and I love it, so.”
> 
> Mary uncapped the bottle of fish sauce and sniffed at it, from a cautious distance. “Well,” she said, “I’ve killed Thai monsters. I might as well try their food. How much of this do you use?”

A few weeks ago, Dean had clambered into bed with Mary and John and cuddled up shaking against her neck, saying he’d had a nightmare about an enormous goldfish.

In the morning, he’d danced his Funny Dance and pulled faces to distract Sammy from crying because his mommy’s hands were too full to pick him up. Sammy had stared, then giggled, and done his best to sit up to help Dean build a train track—or rather, to frown studiously at the carriages and try to eat them, despite Dean’s querulous explanations of how they were meant to go.

Today her sons were a decade older than she was, and darker and heavier with years than even her father had been. And they knew things—knew things about each other—that she could never know.

She felt like a girl, next to these grim sturdy men.

And yet when they looked at her, that all fell away. They looked at her with shyness and reverence, like she held all the answers to life. Like she was their mother.

Motherhood was _learning_ , all the time, every week and day and moment, and you were always far behind what you should already have known. Motherhood was scrambling to pretend you already knew. Her own mother-in-law, watching Mary with Sam and Dean, had confessed regrets about things she now realised (years later) she could have done better.

Mary knew how to be a mother to toddler-Dean and unweaned-Sam. Now, all of a sudden, they were pushing forty, in a world she didn’t know. And still they looked at her like that.

She responded the only way she knew how, and they fell in line with relief.


	2. The first time

“Well,” said Mary, glaring at Charlie’s tablet, “that Joffrey’s a cock.”

Charlie had to put down the chopping knife, she laughed so hard.

“Sorry, sorry,” she gasped. “Just. That’s pretty much _exactly_ what _Dean_ said, and. I don’t know why, I just kinda assumed you’d go all maternal and disapproving and, y’know, be sorry for him for being raised badly, and.” She scrubbed at her pink cheeks with her hands, and giggled between her fingers, and Mary found that she was giggling too. “But you know what? I should have guessed. This is perfect. Uh. Toss me that ginger?”

Marytossed it over from where she sat, perched on the kitchen counter and swinging her feet; and when Charlie winked at her and grinned and slid her fingers across the touch pad to rewind the video for the few seconds they’d missed, Mary found that she was almost blushing.

‘Charlie’ Bradbury bore herself like a warrior, and like a child. Or rather, like somebody who didn’t have to be a mother or a wife—who hadn’t had to grow up. And yet she was, technically speaking, older than Mary was. 

It was a very strange way of being a woman. Mary wanted instinctively to put it down either to the _modern_ part of Charlie or the _unmarried_ part of her, but felt uneasily that neither was quite fair. That would be to lock it tidily away into one compartment or another: to say ‘you do not need to understand what it means because this is its label’.

“So!” said Charlie, and turned the pan down to simmer. “Thai food’s probably going to taste weird to you but it’s pretty much the only thing I can cook and I love it, so.”

Mary uncapped the bottle of fish sauce and sniffed at it, from a cautious distance. “Well,” she said, “I’ve killed Thai monsters. I might as well try their food. How much of this do you use?”

“Huh?” said Charlie, rather dreamily; and something about her stare made Mary feel confused and pink again.

_I am a married woman_ , she reminded herself. _Woman!_

_Your husband’s been dead for ten years_ , said another part of herself. But of course, she’d kissed him goodnight four weeks ago. And the John Winchester that her boys spoke of (the John Winchester in those terribly written _gospels_ ) was nothing like the man she’d known.

“Oh! Uh,” said Charlie, and fumbled the knife into the sink. “Three tablespoons, for this recipe. I mean. Two. I think. Yes. Right. Uh. Where’d I put the basil?”

Mary ferreted around on the bench behind herself and produced the little pot, eyeing it askance. “I still don’t see how Thailand can grow their own basil and make it smell so _Thai_. Basil should smell Italian. Even though that doesn’t make any sense either.”

Charlie giggled and took it. Her touch lingered on Mary’s fingers long after it wasn’t there anymore. “I know, right? Have you seen Japanese dogs? They _look_ Japanese. Even though that doesn’t make sense and I know I should think I’m racist for saying it. And even Australian wild dogs—dingoes—they’re descended from Asian dogs and they _look Asian_ even though that makes even less sense.”

“Tone it down, you’re embarrassing yourselves,” commented Gabriel, wandering into the kitchen and stealing a date from the bowl on top of the fridge. “Hey, wenches, when’s the food ready?”

Charlie threw a spring onion at his head. “Out of the kitchen, minion.”

Gabriel caught it and chomped it, and made a face. 

“Hey!” Mary snatched it back. “We need that!”

“Then don’t throw your pearls at the pig,” said Gabriel, and waggled his eyebrows extravagantly.

Charlie pulled a face at him. “Ten minutes. Go fetch your boytoy, and drag Cas away from the romance novels.”

“But they’re good for him,” Gabriel protested, stealing an apple and ducking out of the door, only getting stuck on his wings a little bit on the way out. “He reads enough of them and he might remember to kiss the fuck out of Dean’s face whenever we find him.”

“Thanks for that,” said Mary ironically, and Gabriel saluted, and vanished. 

Except that Dean, to Mary, was an earnest little boy who was busy telling his little brother all about dinosaurs, and who would cuddle his Mommy’s leg at any moment he could. And her instincts missed him terribly, because there are some things that the human heart is not made to withstand. Time jumps are one of them. 

So far as she was concerned, she was a mother, and she had left her babies behind.

 

***

 

Sam did a double take, as he settled himself at the table. “You’ve been showing her _Game of Thrones_? Charlie, really? I mean, the Winchester gospels” (said with a wince) “were bad enough.”

(And that scared Mary. Because what was it about those stories that she’d read—that Charlie had let her read—that Sam considered bad representations of himself and Dean?)

Gabriel pressed a dramatic hand to his heart. “Those were some of my dad’s best work!”

“Sit up straight at the table, angel,” said Mary briskly. “Your wingtips will knock the water jug over again.”

“What’s wrong with _Game of Thrones_?” said Charlie innocently, as Gabriel grumbled his way into sitting up properly with his wings folded in exaggerated neatness on either side of the chair back.

Sam laughed. “What isn’t?”

“The costumes, for one,” said Mary. 

“Ooh, yes!” Charlie almost bounced in her chair. “Some of Cersei’s clothes...”

“I know, right?” Mary shared a sly grin with her.

“Wait until Daenerys leaves the Dothraki and starts getting into these gorgeous flowy creations!”

“Isn’t it kind of... modern?” Sam tried. “No, sorry, that sounds stupid.”

Gabriel patted his hand. “Don’t worry, honey, at least you’ve got a perfect arse.”

Castiel rolled his eyes at Gabriel.

“Sam’s quite right,” said Mary sweetly. “I never saw gore and violence when I was a hunter in the 70s. And breasts are an entirely twenty-first century invention.”

“I’m sorry!” Sam protested, holding up both hands and blushing a bit even as he smiled, reminding Mary for one aching moment of her own mother. “Wow. We really need to get Dean back. I am so outnumbered here.”

“Oh, and!” said Charlie to Mary, “people of colour _definitely_ didn’t exist back then, right? Just like they definitely didn’t in the Middle Ages?”

“Ah-ha! Media criticism,” said Gabriel. “Important skills for navigating the current decade. Chosen well you have, young padawan.”

Castiel frowned. “You haven’t seen _Star Wars_ yet, have you, Mary? I believe Dean would call that a scandal.”

“Which is why we’re not showing it to her until Dean’s back,” said Charlie firmly. “You too, blue-eyes—having it downloaded into your brain isn’t the same as _watching_ it.”

When they’d done eating Sam yawned, and stretched, and dropped a kiss on the top of Mary’s head as he began to gather up the plates. “That was amazing. Thanks, Mom.”

Mary looked at Charlie, who had a sort of resigned amusement on her face. 

“You’re welcome, honey,” Mary said; and Sam paused and looked at her for a moment.

“You’re looking kinda tired. Charlie, give me a hand with these?”

“Not it,” Charlie sang out. “Cas, go do the dishes thing with the man.”

“Yes,” said Castiel, looking pleased. “I enjoy washing dishes.”

“He does know you’re not _my_ mother, right?” Charlie stage-whispered to Mary as Sam left the room, with Castiel close on his heels.

Gabriel stretched luxuriously, wings flaring in lazy colours behind him. “Thanks for the meal, Majesty. Y’want me to clue the sasquatch in?”

He looked at Mary as he said it, though, with those strange eyes like the hidden sun: this unfathomable creature who remained a mystery to Mary in ways that Castiel didn’t, despite how much she knew about his history.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Mary, smiling. “He’s trying his best, poor boy. Man.”

Under the table, Charlie found her hand and squeezed it.

“Scrabble?” suggested Charlie brightly. “Ten bucks says I can beat your triple word score from last week, feathers.”

Gabriel’s mouth curled. “You should do sushi tomorrow, Red. See how long it takes him to catch on.”


	3. The second time

“Okay,” said Charlie, dumping the shopping bags unceremoniously on Siberia. One of them fell over, scattering underwear and makeup as far as Scotland. She pulled a box out of one bag and opened it with quick fingers, long and pale, which caught Mary’s attention more than they should. 

“Huh,” said Sam quietly, and frowned at his laptop. 

“So, with the hairdryer,” said Charlie. “Like I was saying in the car. Handy for adding volume? But don’t use it on a high setting too close to your hair because it can dry it out and damage it. I think you’d be into the curler, though,” (poking one of the other boxes) “because it seems like it’d be your style, but I never really got the hang of them. Plus apparently they hurt your hair? But you might like the diffuser on the hairdryer? Uh. Look, there’s a whole heap of girly things I missed out on learning as a teenager because I wasn’t girly enough and didn’t have girly friends. But! That’s what youtube is for.”

Dean was leaning in the doorway between the war room and the library, drinking coffee. He was divided between watching Charlie and Mary with a wondering soft sort of look, and watching Castiel (who was studiously dusting every surface in the library while humming along to whatever was playing through his earbuds) with a wondering shy sort of look. His attention was caught for a moment, though, by the array of makeup (or underwear), before he snorted, and shook his head.

“You been taking my Mom beauty shopping, Charlie?”

“ _Woman_ -shopping, hot stuff,” said Charlie, with a laugh that was as fond as it was teasing. She upended another of the bags, which contained bottles of vitamins and of female-specific painkillers and of… products that Mary would have rather kept hidden. “You ever heard of a menstrual cup? 

Dean visibly cringed (and it was one of those expressions that brought John vividly before Mary’s eyes). “Uh,” he said. “Actually, Lisa—guys, I just don’t wanna know, okay?”

Charlie’s triumphant snicker was a thing of beauty.

“Guys,” said Sam, in a very different tone, which made Dean’s attention snap to him immediately. “You might want to take a look at this.”

When he raised his head, instinct drew his eyes to Dean; but almost at once they slid to Charlie. There was a gleam of intrigue and enthusiasm in them that hadn’t been there for over a week, since Gabriel had vanished without warning. 

“So,” said Sam, “get this. Westboro Baptists were picketing a pride parade in Boston…”

“Ugh,” grumbled Charlie. “Poisonous dickfaces.”

“A ‘pride’ parade?” said Mary. “Pride about what?”

Sam switched seamlessly into his earnest explaining mode. “… the Westboro Baptists are a tiny bunch of vicious nutcases who use religion to justify violent hate speech, Mom, especially against queer people, Muslims, Jews, and the military, but they get a lot of press by turning up at events like military funerals or the funerals of victims of hate crimes with a lot of media coverage, with banners like ‘God hates fags’ and ‘Thank God for IEDs’. And pride parades are—they used to be gay pride, but now they’re for all queer people. So. They turned up. And they were getting nasty, as usual. And then… well.”

He turned his laptop around, and slid it across the table to Charlie. She plopped herself into a chair, and Dean came up and leaned over the back of it, to watch over her shoulder. Charlie pulled a face, and hesitated for a moment before she clicked ‘play’ on the video.

“There’s dozens of other videos,” said Sam quietly, as people jostled each other and shouted slurs and waved placards on the screen. “TV crews and cellphones. Got it from just about every angle.”

The hatred in their faces made Mary feel slightly sick. Violent monsters she could deal with. Humans delighting in causing pain and hatred in other humans… that was something very different.

Suddenly a flurry of colour swept across the screen. Every one of the protestors suddenly fell silent, though their mouths kept moving for a few moments as they each took a moment to realise that their voices had gone, and each gulped and mouthed and stared back and forth at their neighbours. And when they stared, they saw their companions’ clothes: all changed to rainbow fabrics, from head to foot.

“God hates fag enablers”—“fags are beasts”—“no tears for queers”—“you’re going to hell”. The letters on the placards shifted and shimmered and changed. Every one of them now read “And love is love is love is love is love”.

Charlie made a small noise, and stuffed her knuckle into her mouth. Her eyes were big and staring.

“Huh,” said Dean quietly, and looked up at Sam for one of their silent conversations. 

“Lot of people calling it a hoax, of course,” said Sam. “Plenty more calling it a miracle. Lot of people getting very angry. Lot of people being delighted.”

“Oh,” said Charlie, in a small voice. “Oh my _god_.” Then she burst out laughing, and started to cry.

Dean leaned down at once and wrapped himself around her, folded her in his arms and pressed his lips to her hair. She clutched at his hand and dragged it to her mouth to laugh against it even as the tears streamed down her face, squeezing it so hard that Mary was almost surprised Dean didn’t wince. 

It was a picture of _love_ , fierce and warm and home. 

These two men, who had been her sons—who _were_ her sons, still, though they were all still learning what that meant—they had become what she had prayed they would not. They were hunters. They had been monsters, in their day, many times. But they were still here, still standing, and still _loving_.

Mary got up and walked away from the table for a minute, because she wasn’t sure what she felt. That happened to her a lot, lately.

“So,” rumbled her tiny four-year-old man-son across the table to her six-month-old baby boy, “what’d’ya think—Trickster?”

Sam grimaced. “He’s powered down, Dean. He couldn’t… I mean, it’s his style, but.”

Dean shrugged. “Another Trickster?”

“There are no other Tricksters. It was always only him, in one shape or another.”

“So… Chuck? Deciding to give a damn?”

“I’m guessing.”

“Huh.” Dean frowned down at the screen, where a reporter was now babbling at high speed into the camera, and closed the video.

Charlie tipped her head back to knock against his chin, eyes shining. “No, but can you imagine? The comment threads must be just _exploding_ right now! And _rainbows_ , Dean! I mean, pride, yes, sure, but if people start thinking _miracle_ they’re going to think _rainbows_ and _Noah’s arc_ and _promises_ , and, and!—I don’t know who did this, but you know how it’s going to read, right? And sure, I guess there’ll be kickbacks from the usual fuckheads but anybody who’s been on the fence, or who gets all carried away with religious talk easily, or even people who were kind of already in our camp but not big on actually doing anything? This will mean everyone gets carried away, and that’s the kind of mood that people get swept up in, when things get _done_! Suddenly the haters are going to look like a tiny stupid minority!”

Dean grinned down at her, and kissed her forehead. “Haters gonna hate.”

“Hah,” she said, giggling madly, clinging to his hand. “ _Told_ you that song was catchy.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbled.

“Ohmygod,” she said, “I have _so many things_ to be angry about right now. It’s brilliant.”

“Okay,” said Sam, “okay, well. I’m just gonna… go. Do things.”

“Frickin’ Gabriel. Frickin’ _angels_ ,” Dean muttered, as Sam stalked out. “And don’t give me that look, Cas doesn’t count, okay? He’s better than that.”

“Oh!” said Charlie, and tugged at his hands. “Speaking of. _Meet the new boss_? ‘I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation’? no?” 

“Huh?” Dean squinted down at her. 

“Dean, seriously, you need to read your own books.”

“Ugh, Charlie—” 

“Especially _The Man who Would be King._ ” 

“They were written by _God_. That makes them even creepier than when Chuck was just some scrawny loser in a bathrobe.”

Charlie patted his hand. “Go and let Cas know. Bet it’d do him good to hear it.”

Dean wavered for a moment. Then he looked toward Mary (who smiled and nodded, as she had to), and squeezed Charlie’s hand. 

He vanished into the library—tapped Castiel on the shoulder, and a low private murmur of voices drifted out.

Charlie huffed out a long breath, then gathered the laptop greedily in towards her and began sorting through things, devouring and searching and staring, every muscle in her face responsive to every twist and turn of every sentence.

Mary went into the kitchen and made hot chocolate, with a hint of chilli, the way Charlie liked it. 

She wondered what had just happened.

Her sons were a delight and a wonder, they really were, and she adored them more fiercely than she would have thought possible; and yet somehow, when they were in the room, it was difficult to feel anything that wasn’t related to them. She felt as if she were a witness in their lives, instead of seeing and thinking things for herself. Did every time-traveller feel this way? or only every mother?

When she came back in with the hot chocolate Charlie looked up at once, eyes shining, and bounced up from her chair.

“Twitter’s _exploding_ ,” she beamed. “Hashtag-LoveIsLove is trending! And GodIsAnAlly! And hashtag-AllyAllah is going strong too! And hashtag-Psalm3019 and I never thought I’d be tweeting a hashtag from the _Bible_ Mary but guess what it is?” There were still tears in her eyes but she was outright laughing now, uncontainable delighted giggles through every word. “‘Let deceitful lips be made dumb which speak iniquity against the just with pride and abuse’! Though apparently their voices came back after about ten minutes or so and now they’re shouting about violations of their right to free speech and also saying they’re victims of persecution and everyone’s laughing at them but it’s _epic_ , Mary, and choosing _silence_ to use against them when it’s their voices they use to hurt people and when _silence_ has been such a massive thing for queer people throughout all of history and is still such an issue for people today, especially kids, and the president’s even come out and—he can’t confirm that it’s a _miracle_ of course or how it happened but he can talk about how beautiful it is symbolically and how it’s exactly the message we need to hear today, and he said it, he said _and love is love is love is love is love_ and I swear there were tears in his eyes—”

Mary put the mugs down on the table and hugged her.

Charlie sank in against her body, trembling, and buried her face in Mary’s shoulder.

“So,” said Mary, after a minute. “I can’t say I understood more than half of that, and you’re going to have to explain to me what _queer_ means nowadays, and the significance of the rainbow. But what I’m hearing is that God—or somebody—just performed a very public miracle against prejudice and hatred, and in support of… gay people? And this means a lot to you. So, I’m glad.”

Charlie pulled back and blinked at her for a moment, chewing at her lip. 

“Uh. You do know that—you know that _I’m_ gay, right?”

Mary found that she was blushing a little. Charlie’s mouth was red and a bit wet from crying, and her lower lip was all plumped up from biting. 

“I,” she said, “well, I thought you probably were, but I didn’t want to _ask_ , if—”

“—I mean, I figured you wouldn’t be a dick about it because, well, your _sons_ , but—”

“—and I wasn’t sure how much it was just, you know, manners and customs being different—”

Charlie giggled suddenly, still halfway to a sob. “For the record? If I talk about _girlfriends_ I’ve had I don’t just mean friends who happen to be girls, I mean girls I liked in a sex way.”

“Duly noted,” said Mary, doing her best not to try to imagine how that worked, and to ignore the soft press of Charlie’s body against her own, because it made the imagining too interesting. “Well. My mother always did say that there was nothing wrong with it if God had made them that way, but she never said it in front of my father. And she always sounded kind of sorry for them.”

Charlie gave her a sharp look. Then she grabbed Mary’s hand and tugged her to sit on the sofa. When she took up her mug of hot chocolate and snuggled it against her chest, she didn’t let go. 

“Okay,” she said, “crash course. First, well, maybe there was a bit of reason to feel sorry for them but only because other people are dicks about it, not because we’re cursed or anything, because trust me, loving girls is _awesome_. And queer means anybody whose gender or sexual identity doesn’t fit in with what mainstream society says is ‘normal’, so, transgender or genderfluid people, and asexuals as well as gay and bi people. All of which is totally fine and valid and not _broken_ , okay? Also some people don’t like ‘queer’ because it’s been used as a slur so there’s a bunch of different acronyms but they keep changing and they’re pretty much impossible to pronounce. Except for QUILTBAG. I like QUILTBAG. It makes us sound all colourful and patchwork!”

“It _did_ take some getting used to,” Mary admitted in a low voice, with a glance toward the library, leaning in a little toward Charlie as she spoke, “both Sam and Dean turning out gay. Not that it—I don’t mean that I think it’s a bad thing, but it’s strange when it’s your own sons, you know? But then, it’s sort of a tiny thing compared to all the other things I’ve been getting used to.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” said Charlie, and grinned, and leaned in too, so their heads were almost touching as she whispered, “and aren’t Dean and Cas _adorable_ together? I know you think they are, you get this soppy look on your face whenever you’re watching them. But they’re not gay—Dean’s bisexual, but I’m pretty sure he’s homoromantic, and he’s got a pretty complex relationship with his masculinity, and Sam’s just pan—I mean, gender doesn’t mean anything to him either way. And technically the angels aren’t men anyway. So you’d call it a same-sex relationship, not a gay one. Just like the federal bill that got through while I was busy being dead, letting same-sex couples marry, enabled _equal_ marriage—we don’t call it gay marriage because that erases all the other identities.”

Mary pulled a face, and ran her thumb over the back of Charlie’s fingers. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t get it all right for a while. I know it’s important to you but it’s a lot to take in—the words as well as the thinking behind it.”

Charlie hissed out a breath, a sigh, and curled in against Mary’s side, warm and soft in a way that John had never been, and so full of bright energy that Mary almost forgot for a moment how to breathe. “I. It _is_. It is important. Not the words so much but—look, having all the people around me, all the people I trust, using the right words does _mean_ a lot? It’s… it’s having a safe space. With people. And the words, thinking about the words—like even earlier when I said buying bras and menstrual cups is _woman_ shopping, that was to tease Dean, but y’know, it isn’t just women who wear bras and menstruate, it’s also trans men and a lot of people who don’t identify as either or whose gender identity shifts? So saying ‘bra-wearers’ and ‘people who menstruate’ when you’re talking about, y’know, how annoying it is to go bra-shopping, or whining about cramps, and say ‘this is a thing all women can understand’… Um. I’m not explaining this right. I just.”

She took a sip of her hot chocolate, and squeezed Mary’s hand, and looked at her with an expression that was so troubled and so _naked_ that Mary couldn’t help putting an arm around her and pressing in until their foreheads rested together, and she could feel the beat of Charlie’s heart all along where their sides touched.

“Everything you explain,” said Mary with a smile, “I’m hearing it. It makes a picture. A bit abstract, but I can still see it.”

Charlie tilted her head, and kissed Mary on the cheek.

Her breath rushed out over Mary’s face, brushed sweet past her mouth and nose, and her lips lingered there for a moment as if she was asking how Mary would respond.

“Well,” she murmured after a moment, brushing against Mary’s cheekbone, “you didn’t flinch away and scream ‘no homo’, so.”

“‘No homo’?” wondered Mary aloud, a little breathlessly.

Charlie snickered. “That’s tomorrow’s lesson. Along with misgendering, and toxic masculinity. But the thing is. I think what I meant to say. Sam and Dean—look, they’re queer, technically. But it doesn’t _mean_ so much for them, this thing. Sam, well, he’s so _at ease_ with himself—or at least, with that part of himself—it’s just not something that registers, and Dean, well, he’s a bit of a mess anyway but he’s identified so strongly with heteronormative values for so long that… well, neither of them are really part of the queer community? It just isn’t a fundamental part of their identity. Especially since they’re both, y’know, big scary-looking men and they’re already outside society in their own way because of the rest of their lives. But for those of us who grew up thinking we were _wrong_ , being scared, being told—”

She stopped, and swallowed, tears springing back to her eyes, though her mouth was smiling and her face was radiant.

Mary tilted her own head, and pressed a kiss to Charlie’s cheek in return.

When Charlie turned her head to stare wide-eyed at Mary, lips a breath away from lips, Mary didn’t flinch. Her stomach was dancing and warm and her thighs were pressed tight together and Charlie could surely feel how fast her heart was going and how terrifying and exciting this was, but she didn’t flinch.

“It _matters_ ,” whispered Charlie. “I don’t care whether it was God or not, it’s still a miracle.”

“How young were you,” Mary whispered, “when you knew?”

Charlie’s eyes, deep and brown and bright, seemed suddenly to narrow and intensify, to look right through all of Mary’s secret thoughts and wonderings, as if Mary was part of a story she’d heard many times before.

She drew back.

Mary dropped her eyes, and reached for her own mug. “I’m sorry. Is that an impertinent question?”

“No!” said Charlie, earnest and soft. “No, I only—sorry. Uh. I kind of knew before I had a name for it? Guys were only interesting as _people_ , y’know? Women were interesting as _women_. And I always fixated on them, even in, well, Disney and so on. I didn’t imagine _being_ them, I imagined _marrying_ them. And when I got older it was all, well, the things that the girls in my class apparently feel about Leonardo di Caprio? Yep, me about Kate Winslet. Uh. Which probably makes no sense to you. But. Movie. Male heartthrob, female heartthrob. Obviously. Just…”

She trailed off, and Mary felt Charlie’s eyes on her, felt Charlie’s fingers settle cautiously on her knee.

“If I hadn’t known that ‘lesbian’ was a word that existed? I would have just gone on with figuring all the other girls in my class were idiots and flirts. And that they were just, you know, buying into what the media told them they should think. Where obviously Kate was prettier than Leo. Because, I was _cleverer_ than all of them and so of course I was the only one to see they were being brainwashed—and all that sort of thing. But when I worked out that I actually wanted to kiss her and save her from the sinking ship? Yeah. That made sense of so many things. But I think if I hadn’t known it was possible, I never would have worked that out? And kissing other girls in my school—even if we always said it was just for practice—”

Mary laughed, all at once, not meaning to.

“We did that,” she said. “I. Some of my best memories of high school are practising with other girls. We. A lot of us did it. And it was so _warm_ and—”

Dean’s voice drifted over her. Her eyes darted, guiltily, to the door of the library. Castiel and Dean were coming out.

Mary squeezed Charlie’s hand, hard. “We thought it was practising,” she whispered, “practising for a _man_ , for what of course we all wanted because what else could you possibly want? And I did want that, a normal life, husband and kids and settle down and no more hunting. But—Charlie, that book—the Valentine’s Day one—the Cupid said he set us up—”

Charlie blinked at her, then her eyes went round and horrified. “I’m so sorry! I forgot that was in there or I wouldn’t have—” 

“—and what I felt for John,” Mary hissed, because she had to say this _now_ , had to think this now before she lost the courage, “I’d never felt that before, not for any man, and that’s what they tell you _true love_ is meant to feel like, but—that’s how it’s meant to go, isn’t it? but what if—”

“Hey,” said Dean. 

He and Castiel were standing as close together as they always did, shoulders shoved against shoulders, Dean’s face sheepish and Castiel’s soft and smug with adoration. 

“So,” said Dean. “I was thinking. We should break out the good stuff.”

“Dean,” said Castiel, “you know I can’t get drunk.”

“You don’t get a vote,” Dean informed him.

Charlie giggled breathlessly. Then she squeezed Mary’s hands tight and jumped up from the couch to catch at Castiel’s wrist. “It isn’t about getting _drunk_ , blue-eyes. Don’t listen to him. C’mon, let me show you where they are.”

She and Castiel vanished into the kitchen, and Dean ran his hand through his hair, and looked after them, then at Mary with a slightly embarrassed face.

She smiled at him, like a mother, and stood up to kiss his cheek. He put his arms around her and leaned his head on her shoulder—this tall, powerful man.

“How is he?” Mary asked.

“He’ll be good,” Dean muttered gruffly. “It’s just—well, there was some shit he did a few years ago when… things went down, and he pretty much decided that since God was a no-show he needed to take over, and it wasn’t his fault because he was high on shit, but… yeah. Anyway. He’s been beating himself up over that and pretty much everything else ever since, and hearing that his dad actually did something kinda like what he did back then? Kinda helps.”

Mary patted his back, and ached for him. “And you?”

“Me?” Dean pulled back, and looked at her like a little boy, and smiled. “You know me. I’m always fine, Mom.”

“Oh, baby,” she said, and put a hand on his cheek, because she didn’t need to have read the books to know what a lie that was.

He closed his eyes, and he smiled, and leaned into her touch.

“Hey,” he said softly, “thanks for looking after Charlie. This was a big deal for her, I think. Her mom was—well. Guess she could do with a mom right about now. I’m just gonna go look in on Sam, see if he wants to come out and have a drink with us.”

Mary waited until he was gone to laugh, and laugh, and laugh until her belly hurt, because that was the only thing she could do.


	4. The third time

“A garden?” echoed Dean, incredulously, because he was obliged to be sarcastic about all things like that, even though Mary already had him pegged as the biggest homebody of them all—certainly far more than she was.

“Yes, Dean,” said Castiel, ploughing solemn and direct through any possible insinuation. “We have the room and the means, if we could import the soil and repair the lighting. And I would find the labour... pleasing.”

Mary said nothing. She kept cutting up carrots, in the kitchen, like a wife and mother.

 

***

 

“Herbs,” said Sam, with enthusiasm. “Fresh thyme? _Basil_. Rosemary and oregano and lemongrass and—and chillis!”

“Chilli grows on bushes?” Dean snorted. “Chilli comes out of a pot.”

Sam rolled his eyes, and threw a pea at Dean’s head. “You do realise Cas and I don’t _actually_ need your approval. Mom, you’d like it, right?”

“So long as somebody else is doing the gardening.” Mary shrugged. “Supermarkets nowadays are pretty damn awesome when it comes to fresh food. But if you want to work on it in the basement I don’t care.”

Sam sighed noisily.

 

***

 

Castiel’s wings were healing, after the havoc Lucifer had wreaked on him. Which was convenient, because otherwise transporting several tonnes of topsoil and compost and mulch would have been awkward.

Charlie got disturbingly enthusiastic about landscaping. Mary sometimes felt like she thought she was creating a whole new country which just happened to grow various vegetable patches in it instead of various forests and marshes. 

There were miniature hills, and mountains, and retaining walls (planned by Charlie and executed in all their engineering minutiae by Dean) of stones and logs and discreet steel and concrete.

Charlie made a map, and marked various parts FOREST OF PERSIMMONIVANCE and VALE OF STRAWBERRIES and EGGPLANTGLADE, and giggled helplessly while she did it. Sam made faces at her and argued about compatibility of soil types. 

 

 

***

 

“Okay, so,” said Sam, “if we assumed 80% yield and stagger the planting at three-week intervals, we should get a return of…”

“Apples,” said Castiel earnestly. “I know it would be some years before we gathered our first crop, but…”

“… the incidence of disease in consecutive crops of tomatoes…”

“… heirloom bean varieties…”

“… season for chard?…”

“… trellises…”

“… cross-fertilisation?…”

“… pest management!…”

“The fuck have we let ourselves in for,” said Dean, and did his best to pretend he wasn’t smiling a ridiculously affectionate smile.

 

***

 

“The vegetables will go by season,” said Castiel gravely, and helped himself to another slice of Dean’s lasagne.

“But even if you plant out generous portions,” argued Mary, “enough to sustain all of us with a 20% surplus of return, even factoring in preserving seeds for next year, that will take up less than a quarter of the space in that hangar.”

Charlie’s hand snuck across to latch onto Mary’s knee, under the table.

“I’ve been thinking about shade plants,” said Sam, digging his fork in, “and there’s a few places that ship really nice seedlings at good prices.”

“Bay trees,” said Castiel, with a frown, “and rosemary, and other seasoning plants that will continue to thrive at any time of year.”

“Mm,” said Sam with a frown. “They’re from hot, dry climates, aren’t they? I wonder how hard it would be to have different sorts of climates in different parts of the hangar.”

“To a certain extent plants will create their own climates,” Castiel pointed out. “A small pond surrounded by ferns and shady plants would create an atmosphere cooler and more humid than the rest of the space. Of course, we’d have to have some larger, hardier plants to protect them.”

“Ferns?” said Sam thoughtfully.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t forget a lawn so Sam can make daisy chains for bracelets and earrings.”

Sam kicked him under the table.

“I like the idea of a pond,” said Charlie, with the slow evil grin that Mary was coming to know too well. “With fish! Or—oh, frogs!”

Castiel brightened up. 

“I would like frogs,” he said.

Mary turned her head to look at Charlie, to smile and to smirk and to slide her hand over Charlie’s in silent conspiracy. 

“Thanks, Charlie,” said Dean.

Charlie beamed at him. “You know what else would be good? A goat pen in one corner! You could build a goat pen, right Dean?”

“… No.”

“And they’d eat all the food scraps! And make manure for the garden! It’d be like a self-contained system!”

Castiel turned toward Dean, and took a serious hold on his arm. “Dean,” he said, as intense as if he were announcing the third rising of Satan, “we _need_ to have goats.”

“Actually,” said Sam, half grinning, “goats wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“And their snuffly _noses_ , Sam, have you seen their noses?” 

“You know,” said Mary thoughtfully, “not that I’m really an animals kind of a person, but milk and cheese? when you’re already planning a vegetable garden? Not a bad idea.”

“There is certainly something to be said for self-sufficiency,” Castiel agreed.

Charlie’s hand crept a little way up Mary’s thigh, and turned over to tickle her palm. Mary cleared her throat, and found she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. This thing with Charlie was… slow, and sweet, and warm, and utterly intoxicating. Even though they’d only exchanged a few soft kisses—even though the feel of Charlie’s body cuddled up against hers, hands wandering up and down her back and mouths nuzzling into necks, was still new—Mary was waking up every morning smiling and excited, and wanting to see what would happen next.

“Hm,” said Mary. “Chickens would be more practical. And rabbits?”

Castiel’s eyes went very wide and soft.

“Oh sure,” said Dean. “Why not just grow a bamboo forest and get some baby pandas?”

Charlie was giggling uncontrollably by now, half leaning in against Mary’s arm.

Castiel looked thoughtful.

“… shit,” said Dean.

“Well, they _are_ critically endangered,” Charlie pointed out.

“You are _not_ going to start rescuing every single endangered species.”

“Well, there are several endangered species of bird and bat in the mainland states. And birds and insects and bats are usually crucial to pollination,” said Castiel. “The space is large enough to serve as a small ecosystem.”

“We’re getting a divorce,” Dean informed Castiel.

Castiel patted his hand. Under the table, Mary patted Charlie’s. Then she began tracing her fingers lightly over the inside of Charlie’s wrist, because she’d discovered yesterday how much that flustered her.

“So,” said Charlie, loudly, going a bit pink—“rabbits, then?”

“I think you might find yourself converting more empty rooms soon, honey,” said Mary to Dean.

 

*** 

 

Evenings nowadays were as often spent with seed order catalogues or gardening blogs as with books of lore; and Dean had grown resigned to the fact that, when Sam and Castiel were huddled together on one of the sofas having intense, earnest conversations about worm farms, or olive harvesting and pressing, it would be hours until Castiel joined him in bed.

Dean was a renowned hunter, and utterly domestic.

**Author's Note:**

> [Over here on tumblr.](http://whitmerule.tumblr.com/tagged/happy-few)


End file.
